Stormy
by InitialLuv
Summary: McCormick is having a "do not disturb" kind of a day.


_**Author's Note:**_ This is my first song lyric inspired fic. The song I chose, "_I Know_," by LuxDeluxe, is more of a romantic ballad, but there are a few lines of the song that have always stuck with me, as they seemed an appropriate description of McCormick.

The time period of this story is in the first season, early November (before **"_The Prince of Fat City_"**).

**-ck**

_Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, __**not**__ for profit._

* * *

_**STORMY **_

_**by InitialLuv**_

_This is a warning__  
__Stay out, keep out, watch it__  
__Feeling kinda stormy__  
__Outside the sky is lit. _

_-_"_I Know_" by LuxDeluxe

He had noticed it first on the basketball court. Actually, "noticed" was probably not a strong enough word. He'd been relatively astounded by the kid's bad behavior.

ooOoo

Milton C. Hardcastle was warming up, varying between free throws and lay-ups, for a good ten minutes before Mark McCormick emerged from the gatehouse, disheveled and grouchy. His clothes were rumpled and looked as if they'd been slept in, and his curls were a mess of matted tangles. Additionally, there was a sour look screwed onto his face. In a way, that wasn't exactly new. Mark often appeared on the court in this fashion, sometimes to bluff the judge into thinking the ex-con wasn't awake enough to be a worrisome opponent. Although this morning, something in McCormick's posture and expression led Hardcastle to believe this was not a sandbagging effort.

The older man fielded the basketball as it bounced back to him after caroming off the edge of the hoop. Grasping the ball in the crook of his right arm, Hardcastle swiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his left hand. It had been unusually humid and hot for the past few days, a rather uncomfortable state that would not be broken until rain – or most likely, storms – made an appearance.

"Where ya been?" the judge asked, then looked pointedly at his watch. "I was starting to think you were ignoring me."

"No chance of that." Mark's tone was sharp, and Hardcastle raised his eyebrows, looking a little harder at the ex-con. "What? Didn't get enough beauty sleep?"

McCormick shook his head fractionally; the movement was so minute it was hard to tell if it was a negative response to the judge's question, or just a dismissive gesture. "Give me the damn ball," he said.

The game started normally enough, with both men trading baskets as well as trading elbows, and the score remained competitive throughout. McCormick was playing more intensely than usual, and seemed almost as focused as he'd been when the two had played a rough-and-tumble game to determine who would run point with the Black Widow. Mark was also uncharacteristically quiet, not offering his usual good-humored barbs and criticisms about Hardcastle's skill, or lack thereof . . . until a rather solid shoulder bump from the judge shoved Mark back hard enough that he lost his footing, and landed roughly on his backside. Then McCormick became the opposite of quiet, letting out a string of indirect and direct curses, the direct ones being aimed at the ground, the heat, and at his current adversary.

Hardcastle waited for the swearing to wind down, and then he held out a hand. "You need some help?"

"No, I don't need any help!" Mark fairly slapped the judge's hand away. "Especially not from the guy who just knocked me on my ass!"

The judge backed up a step, both as a reaction to the slap and to the words. "You don't want my help, fine. But don't act like this is new, us playing like this. You didn't hear me whining when you kneed me in the gut trying to go over me on that last basket."

McCormick was picking himself up off the ground, using his hands to brush the dirt from his clothes, which was somewhat impractical as the tee-shirt and cut-offs were sweat-drenched and would need to be laundered anyway. "I'm not whining," he muttered, as one hand went around to his rear, rubbing it lightly. He kept his head down, and his eyes and frown were aimed at the pavement.

"Coulda fooled me."

Mark's head lifted at that. The black look he sent at Hardcastle was so unfamiliar that the judge took another step back. _No, not exactly unfamiliar – I just haven't seen it in a while. Maybe not since he first came to stay here. _

While Milt was mentally figuring just how long this most recent ex-con had been in his custody, the ex-con in question had turned on his heel, and was marching back to the gatehouse.

"Hey!"

Mark barely paused at the judge's call.

"_McCormick_!"

The younger man turned just long enough to say, "I'm done playing," and then disappeared into the gatehouse, leaving the flabbergasted judge to stare after him.

ooOoo

Breakfast didn't go any better.

Hardcastle had the coffee perking, the bacon drained, and the "Eggs Milton" ready to dish out onto plates. He was fairly sure he'd have a breakfast companion. It wasn't unheard of that McCormick would miss a meal, but it was damn rare, so Hardcastle had surmised that no matter what kind of mood the kid was in, he'd probably still show up. And he'd been right – McCormick _did_ show. . . still clad in the dirty, sweaty clothes he'd been wearing during the basketball game.

Milt was placing the platter of bacon on the table when Mark came in the back door. The older man caught a whiff of the accompanying odor, then wrinkled his nose and let out a slight grunt. "You couldn't have taken a shower before coming over here?" He himself had gotten a quick shower and had changed into fresh clothes before beginning to prepare breakfast.

"Why?" Mark poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat at the table, plopping into his seat in such a way that the movement caused a breeze, which carried his unpleasant scent across the room. "I'm just going to get all sweaty and everything again when I do my chores. And the shower in the gatehouse is still acting up."

"So shower over here. You've done it before. You were coming over here to eat, anyway." Milt set a plate of eggs in front of the younger man, then set his own plate down and took a seat.

Mark had taken a few bites of the eggs, and washed them down with coffee before he answered. "I told you, it doesn't make sense. How many showers am I supposed to take in a day?" The younger man began piling bacon onto his plate as he spoke.

"I just thought it would be nice to enjoy a decent meal without having to smell – hey, leave some of that for me!" The judge grabbed a few pieces of bacon before McCormick could empty the serving plate.

But Mark had stopped eating, and was now lowering a partially eaten piece of bacon back to his plate. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, his voice low.

Milt looked up in surprise at the threatening tone. "What? What are you talking about?"

McCormick had pushed away his nearly full plate, and was sitting rigidly in his chair. "I'm not good enough to eat at the same table as you. Not 'decent' enough. I might as well be back in prison, sitting with all of the other cons who are sweaty and smelly and low class, right?"

The judge sat back as well, lowering his fork to his plate. "Where the hell did you get that idea from?"

Mark snorted indelicately. "Yeah, okay, Hardcase. Play dumb."

It was true, during the first few days of McCormick's residence at the estate the ex-con had not eaten a meal in the dining room, although that had been as much about timing as it had been about trust. But that had been over a month ago – close to two months, now. The kid was such a familiar sight at the dining room table now that he had a designated chair, across from Sarah and kitty-corner from the judge.

How had they fallen so far back from where they'd come, in so little time?

"I'm not the one being dumb right now," Hardcastle growled. "You're the one who's being a world-class idiot. And you better shape up, you hear?"

"Oh yeah? What, 'shape up or ship out'? Is that what you're trying to say?" Mark had completely abandoned his breakfast, and now stood, roughly pushing his chair back.

Milt goggled up at him. "What is wrong with you?!"

Mark's hostile expression wavered, replaced briefly with a look of confusion. But before either man could comprehend the change or comment on it, the ex-con turned away and made for the door. "I've got chores to do," he said, and left without looking back.

Once the breakfast dishes had been cleared (Milt covered McCormick's plate with foil and placed it in the fridge, under the guise of not wanting to waste uneaten food), the judge moved into the den, and attempted to finish reading the Saturday paper. After the two early-morning outbursts, Hardcastle was of a mind to leave McCormick alone for the rest of the day. He didn't relish the idea of getting yelled at again for no reason (for he was fairly sure he hadn't done anything specific to trigger the kid's tantrums), and as Sarah was off for the weekend, he didn't have her pushing him to 'make things right' with the younger man.

_But I haven't done anything __**wrong**__._

If Sarah had been at the estate that weekend, Milt figured that at least the breakfast blowup would have been avoided. McCormick might wise off to the housekeeper from time to time – the kid was pretty much incapable of _not_ being a smartass – but he rarely showed raw anger or even swore when the woman was near. And if he did forget himself and let out a curse or an unsavory remark in Sarah's presence, the words were almost always followed up with a quick apology, and sometimes even a look of shame. It was a wonder sometimes, how that woman was able to command respect from McCormick by just sending a quiet, piercing gaze at the young ex-con. Mainly because it seemed the only way _he _could command respect from the kid was by threats and yelling.

_But that's not really respect, is it? It's more like behavior modification by authority. _

The sudden sound of the lawnmower motor broke into Hardcastle's thoughts. He heaved an uneasy sigh of relief – it would be difficult, if not impossible, to try to get McCormick's attention over the noise of the mower. He could put off a potentially awkward (_potentially awkward? More like __**probably**_) discussion for maybe another two hours. And depending on whatever chore the kid chose to do next, well, he might be able to stretch that two hours all the way to lunchtime.

As it happened, he was able to stretch it to lunchtime and well past.

After puttering around in the den reading the paper, going through some random files, and checking out the noon news report, Milt wandered into to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich, more because it was lunchtime than because he was hungry. He'd gotten himself a plate and had the bread and lunchmeat and cheese out, and was still scrounging in the fridge for condiments when he heard the front door open and close. Smiling to himself, Milt emerged from the fridge with mustard and mayonnaise, placing the bottles on the counter before going back to the cupboard to grab a second plate.

And then the front door opened and closed a second time.

The smile was soon replaced with a puzzled frown, and Hardcastle left the kitchen, going down the hall to the den, which was, in fact, empty. _What the hell? _

Then the judge saw the pile of mail on his desk. Apparently the kid had retrieved the mail and had dropped it off, but had neglected to stay. Milt looked through the envelopes of bills and correspondence, sighing softly. He glanced out the window, but saw no sign of McCormick. He considered going out to track down the ex-con, to hash things out with him and find out how he'd gotten the kid so upset. But at the same time, his male ego arose. Why should he have to coddle McCormick? The guy was a grown man, and if he couldn't carry on a conversation or have a simple meal without erupting into unfounded anger, it certainly wasn't Milt's fault. And damned if he was going to apologize when he'd done nothing wrong.

When Hardcastle finally returned to the kitchen, it was to put the sandwich fixings away.

Milt spent the rest of the day alone. He stayed in the den long enough to hear the next chore on McCormick's list – the soft whisking of the hedge clippers came close to the window as the kid worked on the nearby bushes – and then the judge descended to the basement, to go through his files and try to keep busy. At one point he thought he heard a door – most likely the kitchen – open and close. Presumably the kid had come in to get a drink, maybe take some time to relax out of the hot, humid air. Hardcastle didn't get up to check, nor did he call for McCormick. _If the kid wants to talk to me, he can damn well look for me._ But when the door opened and closed again about ten minutes later, Milt grumbled quietly to himself and reluctantly went back to his filing.

When the judge came up from the basement sometime around seven, he went to the kitchen to scrounge up some leftovers for supper, which he ate in the den in front of the television, watching the end of a late college football game. Occasionally he shot a glance at the front door, thinking (_hoping?_) the absent ex-con would appear at any moment. But as the evening dragged on and there was still no sign of McCormick, Hardcastle took his supper dishes back to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and settled again in front of the TV, finding an old movie to watch until the late news came on. It was basically the same news that had been on the noon report, with the exception of a promise that the terribly hot weather would soon break; storms were expected in the next few hours.

After that, there was little to do but go to bed, and wait for the rain. And hope that tomorrow would go better. Hardcastle lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he should even partake in his early-morning basketball routine. _Might be better to skip it, let the kid sleep in._ Although he didn't like the idea of changing his schedule just because McCormick was being an evasive spoiled brat. _Well, maybe it'll still be raining in the morning. _

Milt had hoped that sleep would avail him of his contrary thoughts, at least for a few hours, but sleep didn't come. After roughly two hours of rolling around in bed, trying to find a comfortable position, he gave it up for a lost cause and got up, heading down to the kitchen and turning on the light. He rummaged haphazardly in the fridge but found nothing of interest, and stood with a discontented sigh. He was considering warming up some milk, on the off chance that it might actually work to make him sleepy – and then he saw the figure sitting outside, in the soft glow of the lights around the pool. Moving to the door, the judge snapped on the patio light, then with little hesitation he opened the back door and made his way out toward the pool.

Mark turned his head at the older man's arrival, and a sudden mirth filled his face at Milt's appearance – the judge was wearing an old tee-shirt and shorts, was in his tattered sneakers, and his hair was stuck up in wisps. For a moment Milt was bothered by McCormick's obvious amusement, but then he tried to remember the last time he'd really seen the kid smile, and he let the irritation fade. Taking a seat in the chair near McCormick, he cleared his throat softly, then asked, "Can't sleep either?"

"Nah. Too hot. Haven't been sleeping great the past few nights." Mark turned away again, gazing out to the west. "I've been watching the heat lightning."

The judge looked in the same direction, saw the lightning flicker in thick clouds, and grunted. "That's not really a thing. Heat lightning. It's just a storm that's too far away that you can't hear the thunder."

Instead of answering, Mark turned back slowly to the judge, an obvious look of annoyance on his face. Milt only shrugged. "I'm right," he said, matter-of-fact. And he knew he was right – having just heard it from the meteorologist's mouth on the late news.

While the two men were staring at each other, a far off rumble of thunder was heard. Milt gestured in the direction. "See?" he said. "Toldja."

Mark just shook his head, exhaling shortly. Both sat quietly after that, watching the lightning as it grew brighter, and listening to the thunder as it became louder and more numerous. Milt was beginning to doze, lulled by the heat and the darkness, when McCormick suddenly spoke.

"I'm sorry, Judge."

"Hmm?" Milt lifted his head.

"The way I've been acting. The mood I've been in. None of it was your fault, and I'm sorry I've been such an ass to you."

Hardcastle shrugged his shoulders and simultaneously tilted his head. "Well, I wouldn't say you've been – "

"I have. An ass. Not a donkey; you've got the market cornered on that." Mark smiled again, and the judge was amazed at how the lighthearted expression did exactly that – made his heart feel lighter. Damned if the kid's behavior didn't markedly affect him.

_When the hell did that happen?_

"So, what then? If it's not my fault, what was wrong? Or was it the heat? You said you haven't been sleeping – "

McCormick shook his head, sighing loudly. "_No_," he said forcefully. "I lived in Florida before I moved out here; I'm used to the heat now. Yeah, sure it's been crappy the last few days with the humidity and all, but that's not it. I just. . . " He trailed off, sighing again. "I was just in a bad mood."

Milt leaned forward, brows lowered. "Why?"

"Just – " Mark threw up his hands. "Just because! I don't know why. I get like this sometimes. Always have. Some times are worse than others. I don't really know what triggers it." His face took on a reflective, almost sad expression. "My mom used to say I got 'stormy.' She knew when I got like that to leave me alone for a while, not to push me." McCormick looked pointedly at Hardcastle. "I don't know if you're capable of that, though."

Hardcastle let out a chuckle, which then turned into a genuine laugh. Mark joined in, and soon both were laughing companionably. It was when they were laughing together that the wind suddenly came up, hard enough to move a few of the unoccupied patio chairs, and making the water in the pool slosh gently. A bright flash of lightning was next, and as the world lit up, the trees could be seen bending and swaying in the wind. The lightning had barely dimmed before there was a clap of thunder. The hair stood up on Milt's arms, and he rose quickly. "Storm's coming in. We better get inside."

If anything, Mark settled down more secure in his chair. "What do you think you're doing?" Milt asked in exasperation.

"I've been waiting days for this heat to break. I'm not going in yet."

"You're going to get soaked!"

McCormick nodded. "That's the idea." Lightning flashed again, lighting up the ex-con's stubborn features.

"Well, _I'm_ not going to sit out here like a crazy person. I'm heading – "

Hardcastle's statement was interrupted by a deafening crack of thunder, and then the deluge began. "Damn it!" the older man yelled, and charged back to the house, his hands over his head in a vain attempt to keep it dry. He could hear McCormick's laughter behind him, and glancing back before he entered the house, the judge saw the kid had his face up to the sky and his arms wide open, welcoming the rain. Milt stood just inside the door and studied McCormick's expression, as the young man sat in the poolside chair letting himself get drenched. There was a kind of joy about the ex-con, so opposite from how he'd been earlier in the day that the kid seemed like a different person, and Milt smiled in genuine affection at the return of McCormick's youthful behavior. Until a blaze of lightning, close enough to make the lights flicker, prompted Hardcastle to lean out of the kitchen door. "Get inside, you loon!"

McCormick finally rose from the chair and dashed inside. Once in the house and with the door firmly closed behind him, he stood in the kitchen and dripped onto the floor, grinning at the judge.

"Got a towel?"

"A towel?" Milt repeated. "How is a towel supposed to help? Your clothes are soaked!"

"Got any extra clothes?

When the judge continued to look at him in mild disbelief, McCormick shrugged sheepishly. "I don't really want to run back to the gatehouse in this." Mark tilted his dripping head at the window, just as a particularly brilliant flash of lightning sparked across the night sky.

Milt snorted. "Five minutes ago you were happy to be out in this. Now you can't even go out in it to get to the gatehouse?"

Thunder boomed, and this time the lights didn't flicker – they went out completely.

"Got any candles?"

Even in the almost pitch-black darkness, Hardcastle could see the glint of an impish grin.

_**END**_


End file.
